


Little Boy Lost

by lackadaisical



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: A+ Parenting, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5577854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lackadaisical/pseuds/lackadaisical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a strange phenomenon: Ben Solo physically grew but he never stopped feeling like an eight-year-old, curled under his blankets and barely managing to stifle his terrified sobbing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Boy Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Because Luke, Leia, and Han might not make the best parents (and every child is a product of their environment).
> 
> A speculative (and admittedly biased) look into how Ben Solo's childhood led him to Kylo Ren in adulthood. Working off the theory that growing up related to the heroes of the Rebel alliance wouldn't have made for a healthy atmosphere.

When Ben was very small—just a month past eight-years-old—Uncle Luke sat him down and gave Ben a very Serious look. It seemed to Ben that Uncle Luke was always Serious and Very Busy doing something Important. If Uncle Luke decided talking to Ben was Important, it was.

A fear gripped Ben.

“Now, Ben,” Uncle Luke began, as he always did. “I’m going to tell you something and it’s very important for you to understand.”

Ben nodded eagerly, desperately, urgently needing his uncle to know how much he wished— _yearned—_ to understand.

“All Force sensitive people have to choose between the Light and the Dark. It’s a decision we have to make but some of us…” he sighed heavily and Ben knew Uncle Luke was talking about him. In padawan training, Uncle Luke always used the plural when referring to a singular apprentice’s mistakes. Ben’s heart sank. He strained his ears, waiting for Uncle Luke to continue, waiting to listen and understand.

But understanding never came.

Uncle Luke went on: “Some of us have more Dark than Light or Light than Dark in us. Some of us don’t have the ability to choose. Sometimes the Force has given us a path we must follow.” Noticing Ben’s expression, Uncle Luke added, “It’s a harsh and true reality, Ben, but don’t look so worried. I’ll be here to guide you along your path.”

 But Ben was deaf to the assurances; he caught Uncle Luke’s meaning very clearly.

Luke’s all encompassing ‘we’ was a focal point of blame, placing it heavily and always rightly deserved. Ben didn’t know how Uncle Luke knew—did he feel it in the Force? Was it something _inside_ Ben that Uncle Luke saw?—but he saw the path Ben was to take. Saw his fate diving into the Dark side, into becoming the unthinkable: a Sith Lord.

He would be the monster parents told their children about at night; he would be enemies of Uncle Luke and Mom and Dad and all of his friends, all chosen to walk the path of the Light.

Ben desperately wished he _didn’t_ understand. He desperately wished he could be angry but it wasn’t Uncle Luke’s fault; Ben had the Dark in him.

It was a harsh and true reality.

#

Ben always helped with the dishes. Ben always cleaned up after himself. Ben always acted politely, considerately.

He hoped if he was good enough, if he proved himself to the Force, it might reconsider. His path would change, realizing it was all a mistake, realizing there was far more Light than Dark in Ben after all. If only he was especially good; if only he was especially kind.

It was during dinner one night. Ben was carefully, politely eating and telling Mom about his library book on Kamino—he was _always_ very careful with borrowed books—and how he was going to write his historical report on mass clone production for school when Dad pointed his fork at him, interrupting him. “Son, you shouldn’t be reading that garbage,” he announced.

Ben blinked, his fork clattering to his plate. Nervous at the very rude loud noise, his hands dropped to his lap and twisted together.

“ _Han_ ,” Mom warned.

Dad ignored her. “What happened on Kamino was Evil. Cloning helped the Galactic Empire seize power. Darth Vader used the clones to destroy the Jedi and slaughter thousands.”

Ben’s heart sank at the dreaded word: _Evil._ Quietly, he replied, “But, Dad, knowing about the past is import—”

Dad interrupted decisively: “Kid, you’re not listening. You got to understand me.” That was all Ben ever tried to do: listen and understand. “I’m not saying reading history isn’t great—because it is—I’m just worried you might get _too_ interested and turn...” Dad searched around for a word.

Ben didn’t need him to finish, mentally adding in: _Dark._

Abandoning his original thought, Dad shook his head, adding with the prompting of Mom’s scowl, “I really do think reading’s great but you’re so young and easily influenced at this age, you know what I mean?”

 _Yes,_ thought Ben. _I know_ exactly _what you mean._

#

Ben quietly _(sneakily)_ eased the door open of his room, glancing ( _peering)_ out into the hall. With no sign of Mom or Dad—they were supposed to be gone for another hour—he crept _(slunk)_ out, hurrying to the bathroom. Closing the door softly behind him, he stood before the mirror staring _(leering)_ at his reflection. Dark brown eyes, sad and tired and underscored with purple, stared back.

He hadn’t slept in a week. Not since the incident— _no_ , he corrected himself, it _was on purpose_. He hadn’t intended it, didn’t mean it, but the Evil and Dark inside of him was more powerful. No matter how scared he was, how much he _tried_ —and he did try—to be good, he never could be. He couldn’t fight the Dark.

Marcal and Fey—two other padawans, two of Uncle Luke’s favorite—and he were supposed to be practicing untying each other’s boot laces with the Force. Marcal and Fey usually didn’t talk to him, only shouted. They called him scrawny and nerdy and a loser; he was a crybaby who got whatever he wanted because Master Skywalker was his uncle; teacher’s pet. Everyone knew Ben wasn’t _that_ good and Master Skywalker just pretended he was; it would be embarrassing if Luke Skywalker’s nephew—Leia Organa and Han Solo’s son—was weak.

“And they’re right,” Ben would tell his reflection, because he was Evil and deserved all they had to say. Evil people didn’t deserve Good friends or Nice compliments.

But, during the bootlace exercise, Marcal and Fey were being kind—maybe even friendly. They included Ben in their jokes, laughed when he found the courage to make a joke of his own. But then, Uncle Luke was calling them to a stop, dismissing them for the day. Ben began to rush for his coat and backpack but he tripped over himself—his laces had somehow been knotted together—and he landed very hard.

He cried out in pain, a sharp sting of pain shooting up from his nose and Marcal and Fey began to howl with laughter. There was no doubting the culprits.

As Ben began to collect himself, glaring at Fey and Marcal, a great surge of the Force overcame him. It was unlike anything Ben had ever felt before: powerful, raw, _angry._ It shot from him, expelled in one hurtling of energy. The two padawans toppled over suddenly, harshly, and with pained cries, clutching at their right eyes.

Ben didn’t wait to see his handiwork, tears beginning to sting his eyes as he dashed from the Jedi temple. He’d discover the next day that Fey and Marcal had black eyes.

Neither tattled on him to Uncle Luke. Probably because they had pranked Ben and provoked him.

Ben’s self-punishment was more than enough though he would have gladly— _willingly_ —took any discipline Uncle Luke saw fit.

Since, he had been quiet _(sneaky)_ around the house, trying not to be a disturbance. He did his best in class thought never talked _(brooding)._ Uncle Luke didn’t notice a change. Neither did Mom or Dad. But, perhaps it was best. Perhaps they really didn’t love him or even _like_ him, though they said otherwise. Perhaps they knew he was Dark all along and were just letting the Evil take ahold of him, knowing there was nothing they could do. They would harbor him until he grew too malicious, too vengeful, and finish him quickly. It would be kinder that way.

Since, he would hurry _(slink)_ to the bathroom, staring at his pale face, his dark hair, his brown eyes. He searched for a sign of the Dark side already taking root. And, in every strand of hair, every pigment in his eyes, he saw Evil and knew he was already infected. His appearance was dark—all contrasting and harsh—and so unlike his Uncle’s goldenness, his Dad’s handsomeness, his Mom’s disarming beauty. Surely, they had only to look at him to know he was Evil.

Pinning his reflection, not allowing his gaze to waver from his own, Ben repeated what he always did: “ _I am Dark; I don’t deserve my family or any friends. I am Dark; I don’t deserve my family or any friends.”_ He considered it a good day if he could say five repetitions before bursting into sobs.

#

Mom wasn’t home very often until it was well after dark. With Dad, it depended on the particular week; he was either home just before midafternoon or well after dinner.

Ben would arrive home first after padawan training, just two hours after noon. He’d shed his coat and boots, careful to not track in and snow or dirt or rain—depending on the season. He’d have a glass of water—a small one and he’d always wash it well afterwards—before hurrying up to his room. He’d do schoolwork quietly or practice a new technique quietly or read (fiction, not history, just to be safe) quietly.

He didn’t know why he tried: he was born Evil; he looked Evil; he _was_ Evil. Still, a very small part of him clung to the foolish hope of proving himself Good. Or, at least, Not Bad.

Yet, one afternoon, as he eased the front door shut behind him and went to hang up his coat, voices drifted in from the sitting room. Pausing, frowning, Ben strained his ears. After a moment, he identified the voices as Mom and Dad’s.

He should have announced himself but instead he listened at the ajar door like a sneak, like a spy, like a coward. Like he was Dark.

“—but Han, we’re talking about his grandfather,” Mom was saying, her tone quiet and urgent and obviously annoyed with Dad.

“I’m just worried it’ll spook the kid. Being told he’s the grandchild of Darth Vader? That might really shock him; who knows how he’ll take it,” Dad replied, ever practical.

“We have to tell him at some point!” Mom countered but Ben was deaf hurriedly pulling away.

Forgetting he still wore his boots, he scuttled _(slunk)_ upstairs, dashing to his room on light footsteps. When he reached the safety of his room, he finally kicked off his boots and dove under the covers of his blankets, shivering and breathing heavily, mind scrambling at what he just heard.

 _Of course_ his parents had known since he was born that Ben was Dark; if he was the grandchild of Darth Vader, it was in him, unavoidable and inevitable. His parents never mentioned Mom’s father and now Ben knew why: he was greatest and most Evil Sith Lord _ever_. Ben must look like him, must also carry the easily identifiable sign of the Dark side. His path was set for him by his grandfather and he was destined to be just as Evil and destructive and murder thousands, just like Dad said.

Ben clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a wail.

The Force picked a different path for Mom and Uncle Luke but that was because they were Important and Good and Light.

Ben was none of those things.        

#

It was a strange phenomenon: Ben Solo physically grew but he never stopped feeling like an eight-year-old, curled under his blankets and barely managing to stifle his terrified sobbing.

#

Kylo Ren knew the power of the Dark side; he felt it surrounding him, clawing at him, ripping into him.

It was all he knew: the power intoxicated him and made him _alive._

Uncle Luke said succumbing to the temptation, to the beautifully overwhelming, was weakness. A Jedi Knight struggled against desire, he wrestled with it every day, and he proved himself its master. The Dark side knew no true control, no true mastery. The Dark side made slaves of its followers.

But, Uncle Luke didn’t know of what he spoke; he didn’t know _anything._

The Supreme Leader knew.

He saw the potential Uncle Luke squandered away; he saw the great power dwelling in the depths, in the dark abyss of Skywalker’s apprentice. The Supreme Leader deemed him valuable—the first person to think him _worthy—_ and stooped down to extract Kylo Ren from the husk of his former self, harnessing his powers.

Before, he was weak, he was unimportant, he was easy to compare and—measured against the giants of Han Solo, Leia Organa, and Luke Skywalker—he was lost in their shadows, always found wanting. Before, he was easily disregarded. Before, he lived in desperation.

Before, he was Ben Solo.

But now, Ben Solo was dead and Kylo Ren had risen from the ashes.


End file.
